


the ocean echoes in my ears

by bluejayblueskies



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aromantic Sasha James, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Beaches, Fluff, Hispanic Tim Stoker, M/M, OG Archival Staff, not important to the fic but important to me, set in s1 but light spoilers for character development through s5, the beach episode we all needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26005762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: Tim's birthday falls in the warmer days of July, and the Institute vans are just big enough for four Archival staff members. The beach is the perfect place to unwind, after all, and Tim's always loved the ocean.-----Tim, Sasha, Martin, and Jon spend a day at the beach, because they deserve it.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, but only barely - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 84
Collections: The Magnus Archives Flash Fanwork Challenge





	the ocean echoes in my ears

**Author's Note:**

> The week 5 work for the Magnus Archives Flash Fanwork Challenge! Information on the challenge can be found [here](https://magnus-mailday.dreamwidth.org/)

“I still don’t know why I had to sit in the back,” Jon grumbles, pushing impatiently at one of the paddles that’s been poking into his shoulder for the past hour. The official Institute vans were apparently _not_ as big as Tim had said, and they’d had to put down most of the back seats to make room for the absolutely inordinate amount of _stuff_ Tim had managed to squeeze in the back. Currently, Jon sits squished in between a large cooler and Martin, and the warmth against his left side contrasts starkly with the cold seeping from the cooler on his right.

“Well, _I’m_ the only one who can drive the van since I’m the one who checked it out,” Tim says, “and Sasha gets motion sick if she sits in the back. Besides, I don’t hear _Martin_ complaining.”

“Yes, well, _Martin_ doesn’t have plastic digging into his back.” Jon pushes again at the paddle, and it rewards him by slipping from its precarious spot on the pile and smacking him in the eye.

The van jerks slightly as Tim’s wracked with laughter, and Sasha’s hand shoots out and grabs the wheel even as she grins. “Good work, boss,” Tim snickers. “A for effort.”

“Oh, piss off,” Jon grumbles, rubbing at his now-stinging eye.

“Are- are you all right, Jon?” Martin says, his face flushed a light pink as he tries to shift into a more comfortable position but only succeeds in digging his elbow into Jon’s side.

“I’d be _better_ if you removed your elbow from my spleen.”

“Oh!” Martin shrinks back against the car door, his flush darkening slightly. “So- sorry!”

“Quiet back there!” Tim says jovially, flashing them a grin in the mirror. “No being _grumpy_ on my birthday, Jon.”

Jon grumbles something about _could’ve just had cake and been done with it_ that Tim steadfastly ignores. A man who eats _rum and raisin_ ice cream is _not_ to be trusted with any sort of definition of ‘fun.’ Everyone else certainly hopped in the van readily enough when Tim had mentioned the word _beach,_ but he’d practically had to drag Jon from his office. Honestly, Tim doesn’t know why he bothers sometimes.

He takes another glance in the rearview mirror and sees Jon, face twisted in a scowl that contrasts rather dramatically with the Hawaiian shirt Tim had practically begged him to put on— _come on, Jon, everyone else is wearing one, you can’t go to the beach in a vest and trousers_ —and his heart does a funny little twist in his chest.

Oh, yeah. That’s why.

It’s another half hour before they reach the beach. It’s a smaller, less well-known strip of pale white sand punctuated at irregular intervals by gray, craggy rock, and the water is still, the waves quelled by the land jutting out on either end of the beach. It’s still rather early in the day, so there’re only a few people scattered against the white expanse in front of them, but the sky is a gentle, cloudless blue that Tim knows will bring with it the July heat and a perfect Saturday for swimming. God, he’s missed the water.

They pile out of the van, Martin practically tripping over himself in his rush to extract himself, and begin to pull equipment from the back. The single kayak strapped to the roof waits patiently as they remove paddles, towels, umbrellas, and the cooler, which Jon _insists_ on carrying even though he immediately staggers under its weight. Martin’s never kayaked before—he hasn’t been to the beach in _ages_ , not since a kinder part of his childhood—and he scrambles to keep from dropping the paddles as they shift in his arms. He briefly wonders why they have four paddles but only one kayak before he sees the sign advertising kayak rentals in peeling bright red paint. Then, he only wonders why they even bothered to bring their own paddles.

Martin eyes Jon again as they begin to make their way down the paved path to the sand, his arms clearly straining with the effort to support the cooler but his jaw set with a stubborn determination that Martin just _knows_ will lead to a brusque refusal of any offer of help. Martin still offers it, though, and Jon starts to refuse when his foot catches on a crack in the pavement and he pitches forward. Martin makes a noise somewhere between a squeak and a yelp as he lets the paddles slip from his arms and just _grabs_ at Jon. He manages to get a grip on Jon’s arm, keeping him upright; the cooler is not so lucky.

Tim and Sasha turn back at the _crack_ of plastic hitting concrete, and a myriad of emotions flash across their faces before Tim’s settles on amusement and Sasha’s on frustrated resignation. Perhaps it’s because Sasha’s already rushing to collect the bagged sandwiches and canned soft drinks that are rolling steadily out of the now-open lid of the cooler and Tim’s eyes are locked on Martin’s hand, wrapped around Jon’s arm just shy of Jon’s wrist. He raises an eyebrow at Martin, and Martin releases Jon immediately like he’s been burned. His mouth opens, an apology already on his lips, but—

“Th… thank you, Martin,” Jon says, the words tight, like they’d been forced out around a large obstruction in his throat. His other hand moves to the wrist Martin had grabbed and he rubs it absently, like he, too, can still feel the warmth of the other’s skin.

“Y- yeah, no problem!” God, Martin’s face must be as red as the kayak rental sign. He turns quickly and gathers the paddles back in his arms and tries not to look at Jon as they finish making their way to the beach, the cooler held firmly in Sasha’s arms and the bright patterns of the towels Jon now holds dancing at the edges of Martin’s vision.

They settle in near one of the rock formations, a good way back from the water’s edge, and Jon stands there for a moment, unsure what exactly to do with the bundle of fabric in his arms. Then, a pair of warm brown hands are extracting one of the more gaudy towels from his arms and shaking it out flat on the sand. “Come on, boss,” Tim says lightly, kicking his sandals off and tossing his sunglasses onto the towel. “Sit down, relax! It’s almost like you’ve never been to the beach before.”

Jon’s quiet for too long, and Tim’s face splits into a grin of disbelief. “ _No._ Really? You’ve never—?”

“It… never felt necessary,” Jon says stiffly, still clutching the towels to his chest like a lifeline.

“It doesn’t have to be _necessary_ ,” Sasha says with a smile almost as wide as Tim’s as she takes the towels from Jon’s arms and spreads them on the ground next to them. “You _can_ do things just for fun, you know.”

“I have _fun_!”

“Work doesn’t count,” Tim counters. It might be _his_ birthday, but if Jon’s never even _been_ to the beach before… well, Tim has to make the experience _count._ If only to see what happens when Jon truly lets go and _enjoys_ himself. God, Tim can’t wait.

It’s still a bit too early to swim, and the rental place doesn’t open until noon, so they settle onto the towels, the cooler nestled in the sand between them, and soon Tim and Sasha are engaged in a heated debate regarding the best beach activity. Tim, predictably, swears by kayaking—“Though I’m not opposed to a good stand-up paddle board or two, but once you get into motor boats it rather feels like cheating”—while Sasha protests that “the very purpose of _going_ to the beach is to swim, Tim.” Though Martin’s a few decades out of practice, he’s always been partial to collecting seashells himself, and he’s about to chime in when he sees Jon out of the corner of his eye, sitting on his red-and-blue towel with his knees pulled up to his chest, chin resting on his hands. He looks… out of sorts. It’s not something Martin’s used to seeing with Jon, and look, he _knows_ that he’s not Jon’s favorite person, but that doesn’t stop him from suggesting that they go look for seashells. It just sort of… _slips out_ , before he can think too hard about it, and Martin has _no_ idea why he’s asked, because he already knows what Jon is going to say.

Jon looks at Martin with faint surprise. Martin’s cheeks are turning a rosy pink, and he stammers something about how _his_ favorite thing to do at the beach is collect shells, and that he just thought it might be nice, a good way to explore the rest of the beach, but if Jon didn’t want to go, that was just fine, and—

“I… don’t see why not,” Jon says, partly just to stop Martin’s snowballing excuses and partly something else that he doesn’t care to identify just yet.

Martin pulls up short. Tim and Sasha’s conversation has stalled, too, but neither of them notice. “R- really? O- okay! Right.” He stands, perhaps a bit too abruptly, and almost slips as his towel shifts against the sand. Jon gets to his feet with slightly more grace, the too-large and quite gaudy Hawaiian shirt that Tim had practically forced upon him slipping to reveal the hollow of one of his collarbones, and _oh god, Martin Blackwood, keep it **together.**_

As if suddenly remembering their presence, Martin’s eyes snap to Tim and Sasha. “Do… do you want to come along?”

“I think Tim and I are going to go fetch the kayak, actually,” Sasha says with a hint of a smile. “You two go ahead.” Maybe it’ll give them time to work out a fraction of the tension that always seems to exist between them, in one form or another. If Sasha has to deal with _that_ all day, she’s going to explode.

Tim groans with protest as Sasha hauls him off of the soft sand and back to the van. Sasha responds to his wistful, “I _definitely_ wanted to come along,” with a firm, “Timothy Stoker, it is your duty as my best friend to support me in this, and right now, I am _telling_ you to just let this happen.” Tim makes a jab about _Sasha James, antithesis to my romantic happiness_ to which Sasha replies along the lines of _Timothy Stoker, epitome of a hopeless romantic._ He accuses her of intentionally ramming the kayak into his shins as they carry it back to the beach, though he says it with a teasing smile.

The kayak settles on the sand, pale green stark against the white, and Sasha scans the rest of the beach. Her eyes catch bright orange and baby blue at the other end of the beach; they’re out of focus at this distance, but Sasha can still see Jon’s hands, moving around in wide gestures as he speaks. She doesn’t have to see their faces to know that Martin’s is wearing a soft smile.

Soon, three more kayaks join Tim’s on the sand, scuffed and worn, though Tim insists that the paddle quality is really what makes the difference. Martin supposes that answers his question about the paddles, then. He’s a bit worn out from the walk, but the beautiful, spiraling shells and the even more beautiful, spiraling words that had come from Jon as they walked had been worth it. He’d explained that sand was actually pieces of crushed shells mixed with other bits of rock and minerals, which Martin had known, but he’d still listened and nodded as Jon weaved through a myriad of other topics, landing on the composition of the Earth’s mantle as they finally arrived back at the towels and the four new splashes of color on the sand next to them. He’d almost forgotten to actually collect any shells.

He thinks he may have a new favorite beach activity. Though whether it’s actually specific to the beach is certainly up for interpretation.

He definitely has a _least_ favorite beach activity, which he discovers rather abruptly when he finds himself several dozen meters from the shore, wobbling dangerously in the too-small, garishly yellow kayak Tim had pushed toward him. He looks over his shoulder desperately, but Tim’s still trying to convince Jon to even enter his kayak, and Sasha is too far away to be any help. He can just barely make out Tim’s voice as he says, patiently, “It’ll be _fine_ , Jon. It’s easy! And fun! And you _did_ insist that you know how to have fun.”

Jon gives the red plastic in front of him an incredulous look. It looks decidedly… _not_ easy, particularly given the way Martin looks about three seconds away from tipping over entirely. Still, he feels the familiar tendrils of stubbornness threading through his chest, and he steels himself and grips the side of the kayak. He’d like to say that he didn’t slip on the wet sand beneath his feet getting in and that he didn’t latch his arms around Tim’s neck to keep himself from falling, but. Well.

Tim can still feel the tickle of Jon’s hands on the back of his neck as he finally climbs into his own kayak and paddles out to meet the others. It’s a walk in the park, kayaking in the still waters of the sheltered oceanic cove, certainly compared to the rapids that Tim generally frequents, and he can’t resist the temptation to slap his paddle against the surface of the water, sending a spray of water cascading over Sasha as he drifts next to her.

“Oh, it is _on_ , Stoker!” she says with a glint in her eye as she raises her own paddle.

There’s a lot of splashing and shrieks of delight that Martin tries _very_ hard to ignore as he focuses on just staying upright. His thoughts are a blur of _don’t fall in, just stay balanced, focus on staying centered_ , drowning out the growing shouts of alarm until something bumps into the side of Martin’s kayak, _hard,_ and _staying upright_ is rendered entirely impossible.

When Martin emerges from the icy cold water, his copper curls sticking tightly to his forehead, he almost smacks Jon as his hands scrabble for his kayak. It takes him a moment to recognize that Jon is _also_ in the water, his hair unmoored from its bun and floating in a halo around him. Jon sputters out some apology about _couldn’t control the damn thing_ and _not even wearing a swimsuit_ , but Martin can’t really hear it over the pounding of his heart and the water in his ears.

“It- it’s fine,” Martin says, a shiver wracking his shoulders. “Can- can you just- just—“

He reaches for the kayak, which has floated closer to Jon, but his fingers just barely graze the side and send the boat spinning further away. It bumps against Tim’s kayak, and he secures it to his side with a hand, his face split with a wide, teasing smile.

“How on _earth_ did you two manage to tip over already?” he says. God, they really do look like a couple of drowned rats, and the scowl Jon sends his way does absolutely nothing to deter the surge of fondness that overcomes Tim. This may just be the best idea he’s had all year. Possibly ever.

“Tim, can I- can I have it back?” Martin pleads, his hands having found their way to his paddle and gripping it firmly like a lifeline. Jon’s kayak is slowly being washed back toward the shore, and with a small sigh, Sasha heads off after it. Disasters, all three of them. When did _she_ become the sensible one?

By the time she manages to wrangle the boat back into the shallows, the other three have made their way back to the shore, Tim with Martin’s kayak in tow behind him and Martin and Jon looking slightly winded from the swim. Despite Jon’s stubborn _I can **do** it, Tim, I’m not a child_, they end up in the water three more times before Martin and Jon finally retreat back to the safety of solid land and the warmth of the now-afternoon sun. They fade to small pinpricks of color as Sasha and Tim make their way along the craggy gray rock that boarders the beach, avoiding straying too far from the coastline where the waves have white caps and are a bit too intense for Sasha’s taste. The wind blows the stray strands of hair that have escaped her low ponytail into her eyes, but she doesn’t really mind. Tim makes a show of losing his balance, wobbling dramatically before leaning to the side with a smile and dipping below the surface of the water. When he climbs back into his kayak, shaking his head and spraying Sasha with too-cold droplets of water, she knocks her kayak against his with a battle cry and sends them both tumbling into the cool ocean. The smell of saltwater overwhelms her senses, and it’s nice. She could stay here forever, rocking gently in the waves and poking fun at Tim as he yelps and almost tips over again when a fish jumps less than a meter from him.

They’ve dried completely by the time they join Martin and Jon back on the now-too-hot sand of the beach. Tim almost expects to find them sat in quiet tension on the towels, Jon still pretending like he can’t stand to be around Martin and Martin still pretending like he isn’t completely smitten with Jon. It’s a pleasant surprise when Tim hears laughter, tumbling and coarse like grains of sand, and Jon says with an obvious smile in his voice, “I suppose it _is_ rather obvious, when you put it like that.”

“Hi, guys!” Tim says loudly, and he rather enjoys the way that Jon startles slightly, like he’s been caught in a compromising situation or something. “Not to worry, we’re back. I know you missed us.”

Jon grumbles something under his breath that Tim doesn’t catch but that sounds suspiciously like _not likely_ , and his grin widens.

They crack open the cooler and distribute the sandwiches. Jon rambles on in between bites, and Martin’s never been so invested in the inner workings of the cheese making process. He almost forgets to eat his own sandwich. He can feel Tim’s eyes on him, warm and crinkled with a knowing smile, and he steadfastly refuses to look at him, even when Tim asks with feigned ignorance about whether different kinds of cheese come from different kinds of cows, sending Jon down another long, winding road discussing the varying species of cows.

They get ice cream from a little stand by the kayak rental shop. Pink strawberry rivulets run down Martin’s fingers as the bright sun overhead begins to liquefy the ice cream faster than Martin can consume it. Jon squints at the plain vanilla scoops in his hand; he’d asked for rum and raisin, but they’d been out, and he’d secretly been a bit relieved. It had really been something awful when he’d panicked and ordered it on Martin’s birthday, but he’d felt the need to defend his choice when Tim had teased him mercilessly for his _old man taste_ , and there was really no backing down from the choice any more. Vanilla seemed the most logical secondary choice, though Jon had sent a brief, longing look at the bucket of chocolate chip cookie dough sitting next to it.

They walk along the shore, Tim’s lips stained a faint green from the mint chocolate chip ice cream Jon’s sure is going to fly out of his grip as he gestures at the ocean. He asks Jon what he thinks of the beach, to which Jon begrudgingly says, “It’s… all right.”

“Just ‘all right’?” Tim needles. “Come on. Compared to reading books in that stuffy office of yours, this _has_ to rank much higher on the ‘fun’ scale.”

“I… suppose,” Jon says, staring out at the ocean. It really is calming, he thinks. Like he could sit here, on the warm, shifting sand, close his eyes, and allow his mind to quiet, his racing thoughts gentling to match the stillness of the water.

“Good!” Tim elbows Jon in the side, teasing yet soft, and gives him a smile that somehow strikes Jon as more… genuine. “Maybe next time I won’t have to bribe you to come along.”

“The offer to do the extra follow-up on the deMayo case was… rather tempting,” Jon admits with a small smile of his own. “Though it _is_ within the normal requirements of your job.”

“Uh huh,” Tim says, unconvinced. “ _You_ try to get access to an active crime scene. They should be giving me a medal.”

This starts Sasha down the path of mercilessly teasing Tim for being able to _charm his way in and out of any bad situation_ , and he loses the rest of his ice cream to the sand as he laughs.

The sun sets in a vibrant splash of red and orange and yellow on the ocean, and the view from the cliff Tim had dragged them up is _stunning_. It casts their faces in a wash of golden shadow, and Tim can’t help sneaking glances at Jon and Martin out of the corner of his eye. Finally, _finally_ , the lines of Jon’s face are soft, and his eyes stare out over the ocean with an unfocused wistfulness that Tim would kill to see all day, every day. The worry that tends to linger in the corners of Martin’s smile and the hesitance that often colors his motions has faded, and he seems fully relaxed and at home within himself as he leans his weight back against his hands. Tim shifts slightly to cover Martin’s pinky finger with his thumb, his other hand ghosting quickly over the inside of Jon’s wrist, and he feels _safe._

The world fades to inky blues, and the ocean’s quiet song echoes in their ears long after they’ve left it behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated!
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


End file.
